


you faithful friend ( i will always love the blue in you )

by toro (sapoeysap)



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Naval Gazing, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:55:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23262064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapoeysap/pseuds/toro
Summary: it is the unspoken code of bus drivers everywhere, to wave as they drive past each other.Jev learns this quickly, especially as he waves to faces that remind him of someone from a summer long ago.
Relationships: André Lotterer/Jean-Eric Vergne
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	you faithful friend ( i will always love the blue in you )

**Author's Note:**

> jev and andré really just waved as they drove past each other on track in marrakesh. 
> 
> this is a work of fiction. please do not presume I believe anything here to be real. and please do not share this work outside of ao3.
> 
> for v, this is an apology for our self isolation craziness. maybe a gift as well for the turning of the earth another three hundred and sixty five days. it is them, the bus drivers. they may be in love.

Sweet really, the caring way his mother talks down the phone to him. Jev is a terrible son, for the way he makes her voice white noise in the background, focused on responding with the right inflection and timing so that she thinks he is interested. Which is his, undeniably. Interested in his creamy pasta with the perfectly paired bottle of red wine.

‘Jean-Eric, darling, you cannot be content my son’, he is, in this beautiful apartment, decorated to his minimalist taste. Green flowers dancing over the balcony and the setting sun. Warm over Paris. The sunflowers he’d brought from the café sit wilting in a pot. Something for him to throw out after his pasta. Cheetah is meowing as she lounges in the dying sunbeams that dance across his wooden floor. His mother’s desires for him to be married to a beautiful girl, with a proper job and the perfect life are old hat to his ears now. She has yet to realise the way he is content with his life. No, it’s not what she wants for him. But he’d done the perfect son thing, what feels like a lifetime ago.

‘Does driving buses around that silly city really make you happy darling? We put so much into you getting all those degrees, what about going back to the firm’

He’d done it all, explored the world in his youth, destroyed his soul in the grey suit world of capitalism. Worked his ass off after floating around for so long and retired at 29. To drive buses, like any sane man would do.

They had laughed him out of the office, when he had said from behind his reusable cup of cappuccino that he was going to move back to France and become a bus driver. The grey heart of London had finally sucked the happiness from him. There dull suits and Starbucks coffee cups bored him. Sam had been the only one happy for him, ‘Sounds perfect for you Jev, make sure you call.’ Jev had left a reusable cup for Sam in the office on his final day, the Brit send’s him pictures occasionally, of his bright reusable cup alongside the boring white of the rest of the office’s white Starbucks’s paper. He’s the only person Jev misses of his old life. Cat pictures probably don’t make up for the friendship Sam offers though.

Retiring from the jet set life of accountancy to drive a public bus route around Paris sounds like a middle age breakdown. He’d been wise enough to invest his money safely, trades out the ugly little flat he had on the wrong side of the Thames for a beautiful apartment on the right side of the Seine. Spent the rest on Cheetah, as a companion for his new life. And immersed himself back into the country of his birth.

There are no regrets apart from maybe his mother’s rage. Maybe his fault, for not having invited her over to his new apartment. But it’s sort of nice her worry for him. Means that someone does. There is a level of banter at the bus depot. Older men with greying temples and beer bellies from days of inactivity. Jev gets up early before his shift, awoken by the sound of his percolator. Runs 5k around the river and back again. Picks up a pastries in the bakery with a friendly greeting. His delicate routine never fractured. Sometimes he invites friends round for dinner and drinks. The apartment a stop gap for any and all acquaintances that need it. It’s a far cry from the Jev of old, and he knows that of himself. How nice it is to be open, to greet people with genuine joy in his heart. Not feel lumbered with guilt eating him away that he is a failure, useless even if he’s being paid handsomely for soul destroying work. It’s a balance that in his darkest days Jev had never thought he would realise. He doesn’t take it for granted as he winds the bus through Paris’ roads. Instead he feels the vibrations from road, bouncing through his hands via the steering wheel. The day is beautiful, and the customers aren’t argumentative. Jev should have seen it as a sign that his world is about to come to a turning point.

Because there’s a new bus driver on the other route.

Who waves at Jev and destroys his life with one single motion of a hand.

The bus driver wave is meant to be an easy greeting, half the time it’s to someone you don’t even known. Jev does not know the other bus driver. Has never seen him in the depot, yet he throws Jev for a spin.

Handsome, distinctive sunglasses, maybe early forties.

And every day, he runs the opposite route to Jev, and they throw up a hand in greeting, drive away and don’t think about it.

Except Jev does think about it. Because the bus driver with the handsome face and distinctive sunglasses reminds him of a man from his youth. A summer that’s long burnt out. The sun sets on Paris, burns the sky auburn while the streetlight cast a glow on the bars and cobblestone streets. Jev lie’s in his bed and lets himself burn with the memories of a summer he had left to fade sepia toned at the corners of his mind. How he knows that nokia that had started it all lies in a junk draw untouched, moved from country to country as a relic of a summer season gone by. Nostalgia serves little purpose to Jev. He doesn’t remember who called to invite him out in the first place, her name and face draw blanks in his mind. That season of his life so eclipsed by one face. A handsome man, with a few wrinkles already creasing at his eyes, hidden behind expensive designer sunglasses.

_‘Bonsoir Jean-Eric’_ it had been mid-afternoon when he had answered that much he knew for sure. maybe the voice was of his mother’s friend, most likely. funny that he had stayed in her chalet for a week, planting lavender and eating food he had not provided. a dream to his student ears it had been. the end of the academic year had slowly encroached on his life and eating habits. He had missed hearing his native language. Now only caught in snatches of language on the streets of Vienna. JEV misses France, but he'd be burdened with the yearning to leave, to explore the world. He thinks of how foolish he was at eighteen. It's easy to agree, the chalet is on his route back to Paris. As much as he enjoys driving, he had accepted the offer, thinking it will be a perfect opportunity to stretch his legs between Switzerland and Paris herself. A week or so on a lavender farm, plucking last year’s harvest then planting for this years. Food and board provided, and he remembers now, that the pay had been incredible to his twenty-one-year-old brain. JEV now wonders where the pictures are of him and the rust bucket he had driven. Swapped out at the end of that summer to drive back to Vienna in a second hand slightly swankier rust bucket.

It was a fancy chalet, gated and with a gravel driveway that stretched past the lavender fields. As he had driven down the road, at about 20kh/m, he had taken the fields in, the shapes in hats and t-shirts already in rows of lavender. At least his outfit choice wasn't terrible. Khaki cargo shorts and a white shirt, half sweated through from the summer sun, his driving arm darker from the sun's ray in spite of the sunscreen healthy slathered on. An old faded Senna cap and sunglasses that he would never even consider wearing now, hideous in the way only mid two thousand eye wear could be. He had greeted his mother's friend, all that he can remember of her is the way she said 'jean-eric', how cowardly he had been to never correct her. He knows he had been the last to turn up, that he would have to share a double bed with someone, shown to a room where clearly a man's possession had already been stowed away. Just a camera bag and a few shirts. He'd unpacked, applied more sunscreen because it would do no good to go back to mama sunburnt.

It was mid-afternoon when he had arrived, and Jev should remember the poor lady's name, for she had fed him since he had missed lunch. and then he had meandered through the fields to the main group. introduced himself (as Jev, because if he had to hear jean-eric again he may go insane). It must have been Wimbledon season, a radio that occasionally needed winding up had rested on top of a picnic blanket, where everyone had stored their water bottles under the shade of an umbrella. It had been good work, Jev fondly recalls, not back breaking. And have never gotten boring over the week, for the chatter amongst them all had kept motivation and spirits high. It had been a record-breaking heatwave the summer before, jokes thrumming through that they were all lucky they weren't working through that heat. The heat was still hot though, but when it broke at about five, they had all seemed to stop for the evening. Gravitating towards the radio, now just playing a local pop station. They had packed things up, and in chatter headed up to the chalet. Found a spread of food laid out for them and a few bottles of wine. That then was the first time he had saw him, sat on a deck chair, plate piled with food. A girl who smelt of mint mixed with lavender, had stuck a few daisies in his hair and attempt at a beard. Laughed off in quick fire pleasantries, the French rolling of his tongue far better than his German did.

It goes through him now, as he recalls the eyes of the other bus driver. The way he had felt the eyes of someone heavy on him, looked over to the handsome older man with beautiful eyes semi-hidden behind expensive sunglasses. the food had sat heavily in his stomach for the butterflies on top of it. the man had smiled, and Jev had fallen in love in the way he always did. At a glance. Failed to notice the click of a Leica as he turned away, back to the girl with the giggle and the blue eyes hooking flowers in his hair.

Of course, as Jev had wandered back up to his room, full of dinner and hunting down a shower, a few girls had rushed into the bathroom on his floor. He can almost hear the slam of the door and their high-pitched giggles. So, he had headed into his room. And found expensive sunglasses man perched on the edge of the bed, removing a roll of film from a camera. Jev had remembered feeling all his twenty-one years at that moment, awkward and sweaty, compared to the defined man infront of him. 'Jev right, I’m André'

And that's how Jev's summer is torn asunder, by André Lotterer, with his camera and charming smile.

How they had spent a week dancing around each other, with joking banter outside in the grass, as the girls put flowers in their hair and the guys sprayed them with water. Leftover tension like the suns heat burnt into their skin long after it has sunk down the sky. Every night they make it back to the bedroom, let the day fizzle out in half closed eyes as the other had changed. Talk everything over, about nothing and everything at once. Every morning Jev had woken up, curled around André. Every morning, Jev had laid safe in toned arms, of a man who slept a little longer. Thought of nothing, but the way the light of the morning skies light had dance across André's arms. Jev had spent so long wondering what home is, and every time he had called out for his want to go home. He had never found it, a part of him thinks he had left the feeling of home in this man’s arms, in a chalet far away from everything he knows.

They had never kissed. There is no regret there though, not for the infatuation that ran under his skin, if they had kissed. He had mulled for a long time. He surely would have cracked himself. Split open on the power that must have been in the taste of the other man.

When they had left the chalet, he was given an address by the man wrapped in a bear hug that spoke of manliness and not whatever tenderness they had felt alone in that room. They had shared a few letters, a few photos of Jev, with the flowers in his beard. One of the group of them, and one of him and André, heads bent in conversation. Surely taken by someone who had picked up André's Leica when the man was distracted, as loathe he was to let go of his camera. Then one day his letters had stopped being returned. Fate's hand, or just time passing. Jev had not known. Had let the loss sink in, they were nothing after all.

For the second week in a row, he drives past this bus driver that reminds him of that summer. And finally settles down to call Sam. Long overdue.

It's actually wise, to hear Sam's voice. His enthusiasm never encumbered by the office. Each 'mate' starts to make Jev miss grabbing a beer after work with Bird. Until he drops the bus driver line and is explaining this summer he has only just mentally recalled. Sam laughs down the phone. 'Probably just wishful thinking mate, I mean if you ever come back to London, I’m sure Holly and I could set you up with someone' Jev declines with a laugh, but then retracts that with an 'if i ever come back'. They wind down, and Jev finds he really does miss. 'If you ever want though, Sam, feel free to bring the wife and the kids to Paris. The apartment might not be big enough, but i'm sure we could work it out'. Sam hangs up with a hearty thanks.

Jev wakes up to a voice message on his phone.

'Sorry Jev, I know it's late. I was just, wanting to apologies for sounding so flippant. If you think it’s your man, go find out. You deserve this, all your dreams of Paris keep me going. I think it would piss everyone off to know that you went back home and found a pretty man bus driving.'

Sam's words play on his mind as he goes through his morning routine, as he scratches behind Cheetah's ears. He sends a video. Of Cheetah purring around his coffee mug. 'think buddy and cheetah would get on'

His route is pleasant, every customer seems happy even when the schedule slips slightly, traffic heavy. Everything feels good, through him, a rare day when he doesn't feel world weary. The breakroom as normal is a little chaotic, he say's hello to everyone. Enjoys their grumbles and bitching’s. Treat's himself, to a chocolate bar from the vending machine. It's dairy chocolate, he can anticipate the way it will stick to his mouth, creamy not like the bitter tang of the seventy percent dark he is used to.

Jev leans against the counter, sipping from his reusable cup as he crumbles through the chocolate bar. Savours each bite. Idles through his phone, at the video replied of Buddy running circles around Sam.

'You're on the bus route opposite mine right' Jev looks up at the new voice, into eyes more wrinkled than they had been all those summers ago, the expensive sunglasses a different brand. It feels like everything stops, as he watches André watch him. 'Been a while Jev, few summers give or take. you look well'

André lowers his voice, swaps to German. 'Ich habe dich vermisst'

Jev smiles. He feels split in two and sewn back together all at once.

'André', it's all that he can manage. His eyes dart around, the corner of the room is clear of co-workers.

He pulls André tight into a hug, whispers 'I missed you' back into his neck.

They go back to their shifts, an exchange of addresses and phone numbers having taking place.

It doesn't surprise Jev, the way André turns up at his apartment door that night, with the same old Leica in its still battered carry case, a bottle of nice red in his hand and a tiny sprig of lavender in the other. A catch up over dinner, simple steak and salad that they cook together. It should be insane, it is really, the way they haven't seen each other in nearly ten years. Far longer than the week that they spent together. Yet that they can be so close, picking up where they left off, to songs on Jev's sound system. It feels right, to curl into André's arms on the sofa after dinner. To hear about the life that they have missed from each other in the interim, that André does not care he gave up the business world for 'you followed things for yourself Jev'. And Jev find's he does not care when he admits his full name, offers 'jean-eric' up like a gift. André unwraps it by trying it out on his tongue. 'Jev sounds better anyways'

André leaves far later than he should. A dog brought up, that's at an apartment all alone unfed.

Jev is left behind in the doorway of his own apartment, a kiss pressed to the corner of his lips so chaste for ten years’ worth of waiting.

What's the harm, Jev thinks, in waiting a little more.

(Afterall, he only has to wait a night. To find André, an overnight bag and a pretty dog waiting outside his apartment. To receive the kiss, he's been waiting all this time for, the few more kisses they share turn into hundreds. Pushed to lips and necks, trailing down bodies into bare skin and hips. Lying in André's arms the next morning, he vows to call his mother. And tell her that it might just have all worked out. For now, he indoctrinates André into the morning routine. Slightly adapted to squeeze in a little more them time. They've waited a long time for this. The bus schedule can run a little late, as they say, Paris is the city of love.)

**Author's Note:**

> title is from MIKA - blue, any mika lyric feels appropriate from a french speaking yearning couple lets be honest.
> 
> [tumblr](http://www.alphatoro.tumblr.com)


End file.
